Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Misadventures at Margate
By Richard Harris Barham (17881845)I
I saw a little vulgar Boy; I said, “What make you here?
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy”;
Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?”
And when the little heart is big, a little “sets it off.”
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,—
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
“An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold,—O fie!
It ’s very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!”
His bosom throbbed with agony,—he cried like anything!
I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur,—“Ah!
I have n’t got no supper, and I have n’t got no Ma!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had this livelong day one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor ‘brown’ to buy a bit of bread with,—let alone a tart.
By day or night, then blow me tight!” (he was a vulgar Boy;)
“And now I ’m here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump as Mr. Levi did from off the Monument!”
“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head;
If you should jump from off the pier you ’d surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck,—then Bogey ’d have you, sure as eggs is eggs!
My landlady is Mrs. Jones,—we must not keep her up,—
There ’s roast potatoes at the fire,—enough for me and you,—
Come home, you little vulgar Boy,—I lodge at No. 2.”
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,—
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
“Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X.”
She said she “did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys.”
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed the delf,
Said I “might go to Jericho, and fetch the beer myself.”
I changed a shilling (which in town the people call a Bob),—
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child,—
And I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!”
I could not see my little friend, because he was not there!
I peeped beneath the table-cloth, beneath the sofa too,—
I said, “You little vulgar Boy! why what ’s become of you?”
The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I ’m at tea;
I could not see my sugar-tongs, my silver watch,—O dear!
I knew ’t was on the mantelpiece when I went out for beer.
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimmed and lined with green;
My carpet-bag,—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—
My roast potatoes!—all are gone!—and so ’s that vulgar Boy!
“O Mrs. Jones, what do you think? ain’t this a pretty go?
That little horrid vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night
He ’s stolen my things and run away!” Says she. “And sarve you right!”
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I ’d give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who ’d gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried, “O yes!” the people cried “O no!”
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down,
I told my tale,—he seemed to think I ’d not been treated well,
And called me “Poor old Buffer!”—what that means I cannot tell.
A son of—something—’t was a name I ’d never heard before,—
A little “gallows-looking chap,”—dear me, what could he mean?—
With a “carpet-swab,” and “mucking-togs,” and a hat turned up with green.
It ’s very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer;
And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I ’m told, their use,—
It ’s very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.
He ’d seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim away
In Captain Large’s Royal George, about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed “somewheres” about the shore.
And ’cause he ‘gammons’ so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!”
He said “he ’d done me werry brown,” and nicely “stowed the swag.”
That ’s French, I fancy, for a hat, or else a carpet-bag.
He asked me if “I did not wish that I might get it back.”
I answered, “To be sure I do!—it ’s what I ’m come about.”
He smiled and said, “Sir, does your mother know you ’re out?”
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who ’d “done me brown.”
His Lordship very kindly said he ’d try and find him out,
But he “rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about.”
My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ,
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
“B
Don’t link yourself with vulgar folks, who ’ve got no fixed abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they “wish they may be blowed!”
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I ’m pretty well!